The Coldfire Trilogy: Broken Bonds
by Kohinyun
Summary: When Damien's bond with the Hunter reawakens, Erna may once again fall into nightmare. With Riven Forrest, a man both hauntingly familiar and completely foreign, Damien sets off with a new mission. Warning: MM relationship.
1. A Wavering in the Fae

Prologue

It came on suddenly, startling him from his much needed sleep, prompting him to throw off his bedding as he sat up.  His movement spooked the mounts, who snorted and shook nervously before settling down again in the shadows of the campfire.  But Damien failed to notice.  He was lost in his own mind, where the spark of something old, something he'd though long dead and buried, had flickered for just a moment, but it was long enough that he was sure he had not imagined it.  A name almost came to his lips, the cause and perpetrator of the sensation, the bond.  But the link had died with its creator, hells below, he had felt the finality of it's breaking, and its creator was best left forgotten with the ghost of the magic.  He cut off the name, the thought even, violently.  To invoke it could mean the death of another, or perhaps it could kill the same man for the second, no the third, time.

            Wincing, Damien Kilcannon Vryce kicked off his bedding, which, as it doubled as his saddle blanket, stunk of the sweat of the three-toed beasts he and his current client rode.  The body guarding business was making him soft, he thought.  Once a warrior priest, his former life had been spent traveling lands no one else dared to pass, battling creatures created by nightmares and the deepest fears of the victims of the fae.  But now, such a life was dead.  The fae was invisible to humans, unWorkable, unSeeable even, and all due to his own actions.  His own sacrifice.  Well, perhaps not singularly his own.  The same name drifted through his thoughts again, before he could quench it and the memories it implied.  It was because of that name that he had been a priest in the first place, and it was because of that name that he could no longer return to his priesthood.  The church still existed, but his faith in it did not.  He was lucky his priesthood had led him on the path of the warrior.  Most adepts before the reWorking had been rendered useless after.  Many had taken their own lives in shame and grief at the loss of their skills.  Damien missed them, oh did long to See again, but he had other talents.  He was nearly broad as he was tall, a thick mass of muscle from years of training, and his skill with a sword was better than average.  Hells below, he was damn good.  And so he hired his services out as a bodyguard.  He glanced over at his client, still sleeping soundly, swathed in his monstrosity of a blanket.  The vulking fool had no idea of how to travel light.

Damien crouched by the fire, letting its warmth seep into aching bones, old injuries protesting the cold desert night.  Once, he could have healed such injuries easily as soon as they were acquired.  Working them with the fae as easily as he moved his lips to speak the words of invocation.  Once, this fire would have been a true weapon, a true Fire, to burn the nightmares and demons that haunted this world.  Once, it might have burned blue, and cold, cold as _his_ skin.  Damien shuddered, knocking a log on its side, sending sparks—bright, orange, hot sparks, into the air.  That was dangerous thought, deadly to the one he wanted least to harm if he were truly alive.

He looked up at the sky.  Thin tendrils of dawn stretched out over the dark tree-tops.  It would be light soon.  He settled down next to the fire, figuring it would be useless to try and sleep anymore that night.  He heard a few birds off in the woods, signaling the new day.  One of the horses snorted, waking the others, and all were soon grazing.  Inspired, Damien fished a pot out of the saddle packs and headed for the nearby creek to fill it.

            The morning was crisp and cool, but Damien stripped to the skin and sat down in the icy water, letting it wash away a week's worth of accumulated grime.  Despite the gooseflesh that pricked all over his body, it felt good to be clean.  He dunked his head once, hastily scrubbing his fingers through the thick dark hair, and sputtering against the cold water.  He rose then, and dressed, and after filling up the pot made his way back to camp, and the fire's warmth.

            His client, Rodney Valcart, a young noble whom he was escorting from the touristy Black Ridge to the boy's home town of Jaggereth, stirred in his nest of blankets when he returned and placed (more like dropped, if truth be told) the pot in the midst of glowing embers.  "Have you been up long?" the young man mumbled, still more than half asleep.

            "No, Mer Valcart" Damien lied.  "Go back to sleep.  I'll wake you when there's food."

            Instead, the young man rolled onto his back, looking up at the sky.  "Looks like a fine morning.  From the shape of the clouds I'd bet there'll be clear weather."  His voice was still groggy, and Damien waited for him to say more, but instead heard the loud, even breathing of sleep.

            Shaking his head, Damien returned his attention to breakfast. The boy acted every bit an eccentric young lording, attempting to dabble in the arts of science, which had become so popular since the fae had become unWorkable by human hands.  Since technology no longer meant death.  When humans had first come to Erna so many years ago they had been alien, invaders, and the planet had treated them as such, slowly killing them.  As Damien had just recently discovered, only the madness of one man saved humankind from being destroyed by the planet when he destroyed their spaceship, their technology.  But now, with the fae altered, technology was once again useful and mankind struggled to recreate it from the rough, ancient designs their ancestors, the first humans on Erna, had sketched onto whatever paper they had available.  But really, Damien mused, this boy thought he was a scientist because he could, as he put it, "read the sky."  Any fool with half a vulking brain could do so.  Hells below, he'd been able to his whole life, even before science became a trend.  The only difference was that before, when there was no science, no technology, he could have Worked the fae and changed what they skies held in store for him that day.

            But Mer Valcart was right, Damien mused as he poured a generous amount of dried wheyseed into the water, it would be a fine day.  He was grateful their journey was almost finished.  He longed for a little action to break the monotony of escorting an all but helpless body along a well traveled road.  Perhaps the next job he took would be to the east, a much more dangerous and less attempted route, and all the more thrilling for it.  

            He scolded himself as he drained the water from the boiled wheyseed and added a few sweet spices from the packs to it.  A year or two ago, God above, had it really been that long, and he would have sat for hours in prayer as atonement for such thoughts.  Vulk, he would never have even thought it.  A priest sought neither adventure nor excitement.  A priest protected when necessary attacked only in defense.  But now… well, people change.  He most certainly had.  There were things he accepted now that he never would have before, mostly because of one man.  Besides, he had left the priesthood behind him.  It saddened him to think of it, but at least the soul-searing pain of regret at the thought of it had died down.  He had a new life now.

            "Mer Verant," he called, "there's food when you're ready."  

            The boy sat up quickly, blinking sleepily in the quickly brightening morning light.  With a yawn, he pulled on his boots and made his way over next to Damien, trying to run fingers through sleep tousled hair as he did so.  He made a face when he saw the fare that awaited him.  "Wheyseed again?  I thought we'd eaten the last of it yesterday."

            "Sorry," Damien replied, handing him a bowl and a spoon.  "We're short on supplies.  I added some spices this morning, so it shouldn't be too bad."

            Spooning the grayish-white substance into his mouth with distaste, Rodney asked, "When will we be arriving in Jaeggeth?"

            "Sometime this afternoon, I hope.  If we make good time."  Damien shoveled some of his own breakfast into his mouth, stomach and palate protesting at the bland fare.  Yep, he had definitely been an independent agent for too long.  Church fare had been ten times as bad.  Still, he emptied the bowl quickly enough, years of rough living having taught him to take a meal when he had the chance, no matter how inedible.  Across the firepit, the boy picked sluggishly at his own food.

            "So, what do you think of these new rumors, that the fae has once again appeared?" the boy asked suddenly, causing Damien to nearly choke on the last bite of wheyseed.  Cursing, he grabbed the waterskin, swallowing loudly, while he swore at his employer under his breath.  God above, he wished the boy would just eat his vulking wheyseed.  At least that would keep his mouth shut.  Of course, he couldn't blame the boy for asking; the same thoughts had been haunting him the past two days, ever since they had first heard the rumors from a wanderer they passed along the road.  The old man had come to their fire early one morning, startling Rodney from sleep and Damien from his cooking so silently had he made his entrance.  Dressed in a long cloak and well-worn blouse and pants, his boots tied tightly to his knees, leaning heavily on a polished walking stick, he had asked to share their food that morning.  And Rodney, the romantic that he was, had instantly agreed, intrigued by the lonely wanderer.  Damien had been more hesitant, noting the slight bulges that, from experience, he knew betrayed concealed weapons.  Following his employer's orders, he handed over a bowl of porridge, all the while making sure his sword was close by.  The stranger answered Rodney's inquiries of the wide world, saying he had traveled all the way to the lands across the sea, to Raenth, and back, hunting demons.  Rodney had scoffed at that and dismissed the stranger for a looney, but Damien was now intrigued.  The demon the traveler said he had pursued sounded very similar to the forms Damien knew the Rakh were apt to take.  But the faint lines of fae that the stranger claimed to have felt Damien refused to believe in.  To believe would be to have hope, and Damien had learned through many hard years that hope often led to heartache.

            Damien realized he had been drifting, and, lowering the waterskin from his mouth, hastily answered his employer.  "One man's mutterings are hardly rumors.  He looked half starved.  Perhaps he was imagining things in his hunger."  

            "Aha," Rodney exclaimed.  "Just as I thought.  Everyone knows there is no more fae, nor demons."

            "Yes," Damien agreed, though he was not so sure.  That faint buzzing in the back of his mind was beginning to stir again, bringing with it an image of a store, on a busy street, with a sign out front that read "Hunt Shope."  He gripped the top railing of the porch as he stood on the deck, trying hard to stand steady as the world swam around him and his legs felt weak.  He fled inside as he realized people were stopping to stare rather than to pass on by, barely managing to open the door, looking hazily at the pimply face of the surprised shopkeeper….

"Mer Vryce!  Are you all right?  Mer Vryce?!"  He blinked suddenly, realizing that he was sitting in the same spot by the fire, his employer inches away from him looking at once slightly concerned and extremely interested, as though Damien had turned into a particularly interesting bug that he had just stepped on.  

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, waving the boy away.  "Just lost in thoughts."

"Ha, I'll say!"  The boy peered closer at him, making Damien decidedly uncomfortable.  "You're not getting sick, are you?  It wouldn't do to have my bodyguard come down with something.  You could make me sick as well."  He was slowly putting distance between them, for which Damien was grateful, but suddenly had a change of heart and practically leaped on the older man.  "Oh, I know.  One of the demon hunters at Black Ridge taught me a few healing arts.  I'll go find a few of the plants he showed me and brew a tea for you that will guarantee you won't get sick."

Damien shuddered at the thought.  Perhaps he wouldn't get sick, but he also might not survive the boy's healing skills.  "No, I'm alright.  We should be getting started for Jaeggert.  We'll make it today if we get on it.  I'll clean up here if you go pack your things."

The boy nodded, thankfully having forgotten about his attempts at becoming a healer.  As his client bounded off for his pile of blankets, Damien found himself thinking of cold, pale eyes and colder skin, of the revivalist architecture of the hunt shoppe he'd seen.  Moving slowly, he began to pick up breakfast, dumping the remaining wheyseed and kicking out the smoldering embers.  "God above, I'm too old for a mystery," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he stowed the gear.  Somehow, though, he knew this was something he couldn't ignore.  Or wouldn't.

Packing up camp was easy, at least for Damien.  He traveled light, and years of practice had made him an expert at the rather mundane art of rolling his few belongings into a bundle.  He sat around the remains of their campfire when he finished, taking a perverse pleasure in watching Mer Rodney struggle with his own heaping pile of luggage.  Maybe it would teach the boy not to bring along an entire general store the next time he went pleasuring.  Of course, he got up once Mer Rodney began to bring his gear over towards the pack animals.  Already the hairy things had laid back their ears at his lurching, jangling approach, looking as if they thought as much about the extra luggage they would have to carry as Damien himself did.

"Shh," he soothed, rubbing the closest one under the chin and guesturing with his free hand for Rodney to lay down his pile.  The boy didn't even know how to pack a bedroll tight! he thought as he reached absently to scratch the ears of the second animal.  Once they both had quieted, he quickly loaded them, messy gear and all, and they set off.

The pace was slow, Damien limping from not-quite healed injuries from his last job (which, he thought to himself, had been a whole lot more interesting than this!), and Rodney from his not-quite-broken-in travel boots.  And despite the morning's clear sky and Rodney's best attempt at forecasting, the clouds covered up the sun shortly after midday and the wind picked up.  By the time the sun was setting behind the trees, guardee, guard, and horses were all soaked to the skin and Jaeggereth's borders were still a good three hours away.  

"Bah!" Rodney finally exclaimed, flinging off his water-logged cloak and throwing it into the nearest mudpile.  "Waterproof, that old fool called this!  Obviously he never used it."

Damien reached down and calmly picked it up.  "Waterproof only goes so far.  We've practically been walking through a waterfall for the past hour.  You can't expect anything to stand up to that."  He failed to mention that his own cloak was reasonably dry.

"A waterfall it is, Mer Varant," Rodney exclaimed, his eyes lighting up.  Damien tried hard not to groan.  "This can't be natural, can it?  This morning there was not a cloud to be seen and suddenly it's as though night fell early.  Do you think this could be fae?"

Damien had to grit his teeth around the sharp answer that wanted to come out.  Instead he replied, "I doubt that.  I heard owls hooting this morning.  That most often means that it will rain.  Besides, this isn't unheard of.  It's the monsoon season in these parts, is it not?"  Even as he said it, though, he felt that there was something wrong.  A faint prickling of sensation he had not felt since….  And suddenly, the feeling of his bond to Tarrant roared back to life with such force he staggered, clutching briefly at the horse's pack to steady himself.  It was so loud that everything around him disappeared, lost in the roar and the whirlwind, the feel of emotions so dark, and desperate need, for hate, for fear, for blood, and that little tiny, almost invisible inkling of humanity, that loneliness.

He became aware slowly of Rodney shaking him, hands wrapped around his arm, calling his name.  It was like blinking water out of his eyes, and took a few moments for him to realize what was happening around him.  "Mer Verant, Look!" he yelled frantically, pointing out into the trees.  It took Damien a few moments more to regain his bearings enough to see what he was pointing at.  When he finally saw, he gasped.  There, moving silently through the trees, were fae.  They circled around the travelers, the winds following them.  Damien's cloak moved with it, and he felt a strong pull at his arm as Rodney's cloak was caught by the currents.  Suddenly, they stopped, and all stood still.  The forest was as silent as the Hunter's had been, oh so long ago.  Damien's nostrils twitched, waiting for the scent of rotted flesh to come with the stillness.  But the sky was still grey, not the pitch black of the Hunter's land, and all he could smell was the musty scent of new-fallen rain.

Rodney gasped, clinging closer to Damien's arm as all at once, the creatures took a step towards them, closing the circle.  "What do they want?" he asked, eyes wide.  His sword hung by his side, well forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Damien did not reply.  The roar of his supposedly dead bond to Tarrant had died down, but still it clouded his thoughts.  It was as if after so long an absence it clamored for attention more strongly than it should.  At least, before, he had never noticed it to be so bothersome.  Not physically.  It took all of his concentration to keep his senses turned outwards to the circled fae.

As one, the fae morphed.  Where before, they had been shapeless entities, a mishmash of colors and edges and lines all clashing with one another, all suddenly took the same shape.  Now they were surrounded by black creatures, almost human seeming, though they stood hunched over and growled ferally, shaking large manes of spiky black hair threateningly.  Finally pushing the noise of the bond far enough back into his mind that it was little more than a whisper, Damien looked on in astonishment.  Never before had he seen such an occurrence, seen so many fae all take the same shape.  Normally, each one had a preferred shape which they showed to the humans unlucky enough to encounter them.  Either that, or they took the shape that their victim feared most.

One came forward, towards Damien, sniffing the air.  Bells that had appeared around its wrists and ankles jingled softly as it walked.  Rodney dove behind Damien as the creature came up to the warrior's chest and laid its sharp claws lightly on the halberd that ran across his shoulders.  Damien's hand crept slowly down to his sword, hoping that the years had not dulled his reflexes enough that he would be unable to strike the creature down before it did the same to him.  The fae, of course, noticed, but did nothing.  Damien's hand rested on his hilt.

Suddenly, the feeling of the bond was gone again from Damien, and at the same moment his mind cleared, all the creatures stiffened, turned, and fled.  Only the one near him remained, for Damien grabbed its arm before it could leave.  When the coal black eyes looked his way, though, he found himself at a loss for words.  "H..how?" he managed.

The thing grew a mouth right before his eyes.  "We would ask the same of you, Gerald Tarrant.  We thought you dead."  And with that, the fae morphed its arm back into its body and ran, leaving Damien holding onto air.

Rodney recovered himself when the last fae disappeared.  "Gerald Tarrant," he asked, "Why would they think you him.  Of course he's dead!  Dead nine hundred years."

"Ah," Damien nodded, lost in thought.  "So they say."  But they also say that the fae are gone, and the Hunter banished.  And Gerald Tarrant had not been dead as long as the Church books' tell.  Suddenly, Damien found himself very happy that he'd taken this job.  He had a place he needed to visit in Jaggareth.  Wrenching stray thoughts away from a raven-haired youth with eyes as old as Erna herself, Damien grabbed his employer under the arm.  "We'd best be going," he said, not paying attention to how curt he sounded.

"Ah," Rodney agreed, nodding.  His fear had left, though wariness still remained.  He seemed unable to stand still, fluttering nervously around the horses till Damien stilled him out of fear the beasts would kick.  Already they stamped in irritation.  "What do you think those were, Mer Vryce?"  Rodney had turned all wide-eyed innocent as they took up the path again.  "They couldn't be fae.  It's impossible.  And why would they think you to be Gerald Tarrant?"

Damien merely shrugged, his thoughts already in Jaggareth, tracing the path through town to the Hunt Shoppe, where he hoped to find answers.  What were the fae doing here?  And how had the link come back?  He squared the small pack he wore and continued down the road.  He could feel Gerald Tarrrant's presence.  The other man was only half alive, yet his precience, undetectable, he knew, by anyone else, continued to alter the way things should be.  Fae formed according to his will, shaping the surface of Erna like clay in a potter's hands, yet wild and just waiting to take shape, yet contained by his desire and by his conscience.  It remained fluid in his mind, like quicksilver.  He did not know what was to come, but he would prevail, just as he always had.

"It matters little," Damien replied.  "Let's move, for daylight wastes.  And I believe I now have business in Jaggareth."  He ignored his employer's puzzled look, knowing only that he had to reach the _Hunte__ Shoppe _as soon as possible, or the worst might come to pass.  Tarrent was alive, waiting only to be reclaimed.  What he left behind mattered little.  How could it, when this world knew few of his secrets?  It was time to move on.  


	2. Of Memories Past

_Disclaimer and Warning: The Coldfire Trilogy is a beautifully written set of books by C.S. Freidman. If you haven't already, go read, as nothing I write can ever compare. Also, the M/M relationship I mentioned in the synopsis begins to appear in this chapter. If that offends you, don't read. And don't come complaining to me about how gay marraige equates to carting AK-47s around in public, to loosely quote the __ esteemed governor of California whose last name I can't spell._

**Ch. 1  
Of Memories Past**

The sign read Hunt Shoppe, and the building underneath certainly looked it. Fitting, Damien thought. A display in the front window showed all sorts of tools of the trade, from fishing rods to the latest in hunting pistols, elegantly displayed in drapery of animal skins and velvet. All in all, very Revivalist. All in all, very much like Gerald Tarrant.

Damien paused before entering, blocking out the noise from the street so he could focus on the faint buzzing of the bond that had started up again the moment he'd set foot in Jaggareth. Still there, and now, somewhat…stronger was the only word Damien could think of, though the bond had grown in neither volume nor intensity. Somehow, unconsciously, he knew Tarrant was here. Whether or not he actually was here, that was an entirely different matter. 

A mousy-looking young man glanced up at the bells that signaled Damien's entrance into the store. After a few moments, he put aside the ledger he had been working on and approached where Damien was looking at a rather impressive assortment of skinning knives in a glass case. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for the owner of this place. Is he here?"

The youth hesitated. "Riven Forrest?" Damien couldn't help but smile at the surname, nodded in assent. The clerk did his best to look apologetic. "Is it anything I could help you with, mer? I'm afraid Mer Forrest has business today and does not wish to be disturbed."

Ah, so he was here. This strange link seemed to work then, when it actually existed. He pushed on. "I'm sure he'll make an exception for me. We're old acquaintances."

The clerk rushed to place himself between the door the link was pointing Damien to and Damien himself. Given the boy's bulk, or lack thereof, it was almost comical. He fluttered about Damien like a bird in his nervousness. "Please, Mer, come back another day. He gave me strict orders…." He was cut off as Damien brushed past him through the door.

The hall decoration erased any doubt that remained in Damien's mind of mer Riven Forrest's true identity. Paintings of animals of all sorts lined its walls, framed in elaborate, Revivalist frames. Some were peaceful and seemingly innocent, but others were more disturbing. A family of rabbits, looked upon in the sights of an arrow, a flock of ducks just starting to take flight, with the shadow of a hunter barely visible on the dark water, other such scenes of animals captured in their last moments of life.

Damien knocked on the door at the end of the hall and a very strained, very annoyed, very familiar voice shouted, "go away." Only one voice could hold so much arrogance and pride. Tarrant.

Risking the might of the other's great wrath, Damien opened the door and went inside. A luxuriously furnished office, all bloodwood and velvet and fur, greeted him. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of a very familiar face, the Prophet, the Hunter, Gerald Tarrant. And below that picture, face twisted as if in pain, sat the man himself. Well, not exactly the man, not as he had once been. His face was a mass of gritted determination as two images, double-imposed over each other, seemed to war for dominance. Once was an exact replica of the portrait over the fire, pale skin, golden hair, silver eyes, save for the long, white scar that marred the perfect, arrogant features. The other was the same man who had approached him so many months ago at Black Ridge, whom at the time he had mistaken for a young noble out to play hunter now that the nightmares were vanquished. Waist long black hair, then braided, now loose, hung over ancient, coal-black eyes and delicate features tanned dark by the sun. For a moment, the link buzzed strong in Damien's head as the image of Gerald Tarrant grew stronger. Then suddenly the link was gone and before him sat a worn-looking Riven Forrest.

For a long time they simply stared, frozen in time like the paintings that hung on the walls. Then Gerald, no, Riven, broke it, chair scraping against the bloodwood floor as he rose. In the silence, it was deafening.

"I was wondering when you would come. Couldn't stay away, could you, priest?" His voice was arrogant, the words chosen to wound. Damien recognized them for what they were; from this man's mouth, a cry for help. Forrest's eyes betrayed him, showing his weakness, his confusion. Nine centuries should have schooled him better, though Damien supposed no other living being would see it.

"God above, you're alive." Damien pulled the man into a tight embrace. The body might have been unfamiliar, but its movements were the same. Riven stiffened, centuries of inhumanity, of being the Hunter, keeping him cold and aloof from habit. Then he relaxed, instinct won over by emotion and exhaustion, arm coming up behind Damien's back to clutch at the material there. His face pressed into Damien's neck, lips leaving a slight dampness as they pressed ever so softly, then lifted away. It was a marvel to hold a warm body, even this black haired stranger whom he had shared his bed with before. Only the night before their return to the Forest, the night before Tarrant's fourth death, his final death, had Damien embraced this man as a human, as warm and eager flesh. But was it truly his final death? A thought struck Damien. This raven-haired man on the plains of Black Ridge, warning against talking about the man he had once been. "Will it bring you harm to talk like this? Is it safe?"

Forrest nodded. "Yes. Yes, it's safe." He seemed to wilt against Damien then, as though his strength had fled. "It is good to see you again. I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know how much longer I can go on like this."

Eyes narrowing, Damien pushed Riven away so he might get a better look at him. Those words, coming from this man, who as a principle admitted no weakness, were cause for worry. Riven's face was wan and drawn, dark circles under his eyes completing the image of absolute exhaustion. Damien felt a tremor run through him. "Sit down," he ordered, pulling out a chair. "Tell me what you know."

Riven almost seemed unsure of himself. "You have your own life now," he said, sinking gratefully into the chair. "I don't want to get you involved."

"Vulk, Forrest, do you think I'd run out on you now?" The other man winced at the strength of his voice, and Damien stopped himself from shouting. "I gave up my last life for you, for Tarrant. And don't think you seduced me, either. It was entirely voluntary. I knew what I was getting into. I knew what it would entail. And now you expect me to just walk away? Think again, Tarrant, or Forrest, or whoever you are."

Color rose to Riven's face with his anger. His voice, though, was deadly calm. "And do you now know what you're getting into? What it entails? Hells, even I don't know. You've already given up so much for me, how can I ask you to give up more?"

Tension diffused in the silence that followed Riven's statement. Finally, Damien spoke. "Don't make me say something neither of us wants to hear. Just know that I will be with you no matter what happens. No matter who you are. I went to hell for you, Tarrant. This can't be half as bad."

Riven shivered at the memory of his time in the Unnamed hands'. "I suppose I can't argue with that. You're right, as always, priest. Sometimes I think you were born with too much common sense for your own good. Certainly too much for a member of the Church. And just what do you want me to tell you?"

"What's going on, for starters? Why is the link back? What are you going to do about it? Who are you? What happened back in the Forest, to Tarrant? And where did Riven Forrest come from?"

The man who was once the Hunter held up a hand. "Enough. I'll answer your questions as best I can, but not now. Tonight. I close at sunset. Come back and meet me then. Forgive me if I do not see you out. I assume you're well enough traveled to find the door on your own."

Damien swore the man was smiling, though he could not see it on his face. Annoyed at being dismissed so, he turned on his heels and walked out the door without a word. The clerk looked up with startled eyes as he stormed through the shop and out the door, where the afternoon wind was just starting to pick up. It would be a long wait until sunset.

* * *

The last rays of sunlight were showing over the mountains when Damien stood again in front of the Hunt Shoppe. The clerk stopped him on his way out, a knowing look in his eye. "He'd been in a better mood since you came by earlier. It makes him easier to deal with."

Damien smiled. "I know. Is he still in his office?"

"No, he's inside closing up. Go on in, he told me to leave it unlocked for you."

Nodding his thanks, Damien opened the door. Riven looked up when the bells rang. "Excellent timing, as usual," he said, dusting the already sparkling glass of a display case.

Chuckling, Damien moved up behind Riven, pressing the other man into a loose hug. "There was a time you could have done that with a thought, love. Now you have to get your hands dirty like the rest of us."

Riven stiffened and Damien cursed himself. Of course that would be a sore spot on this man's pride. "Yes, I suppose I do," Riven murmured, pulling away and picking up his cloth again.

Vulk, but if Riven wasn't touchier than Tarrant had ever been. "So can you do it now?" Damien asked.

Riven sent his a scathing glare, one worthy of the Hunter. "Of course not, priest. Do you think I'd be doing this if I could?" He waved the rag for emphasis.

Damien caught the arm. Riven tried to pull away, but without Tarrant's inhuman strength he was no match for Damien's bulk. Instead he leaned back against the glass, staring daggers at the larger man. Damien sighed. "I didn't mean it that way. I meant the link. It's coming back. And what happened to you this afternoon, when I arrived. You… Tarrant… is coming back. Does that mean your sorcery is returning as well?"

"Let me finish here and I'll explain it." Most of the anger had faded from his posture. Damien released his wrist somewhat guiltily. A red mark remained in place of his hand. "Go wait in the office. I'll be in shortly. There's some wine in the cupboard if you wish."

Damien recognized a dismissal when he heard one, and a man as tightly wound as Riven would need time to regain his lost composure, at least he would if he were anything like Tarrant had been, which Damien suspected was the case. Using his better judgment, he did as he was told and retreated into the lavish office. He had poured two glasses of wine from what he suspected was Forrests' most expensive bottle and sat studying the painting of the Prophet when Riven entered. 

The other man entered the room silently. Had it not been for Damien's warrior training and the soft click of the door closing, Damien would have never known he wasn't alone. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he felt, more than heard, Riven come up behind him and lay a hand on the back of his chair. There was a pause, as though Riven were waiting for something. Damien finally gave into the temptation and broke the silence.

"It's a beautiful painting," he remarked, gesturing to it. "An amazing likeness of the man."

Riven moved in front of him, picking up a glass of wine. "It is, isn't it," he agreed, handing the wine to Damien. "An original Revivalist work, said to be commissioned by the man himself. But they forgot one thing. His eyes, they're gentle and kind. The artist forgot to look past the image and see the madness inside the man." Riven had slowly walked towards the painting as he spoke, as though entranced. He turned to Damien with a soft smile. "I see you didn't spare my finest wine, priest. Avowal of gluttony notwithstanding. One might wonder where the tenants of the Church have gone if you are their best man."

The sweet smile, which looked so real yet so out of place on the narrow face, hid the true spite of Riven's words. Damien forced his hand to relax so he wouldn't break the other man's glass, a deep stab of regret running through him. So we'll play children's games, will we, he thought. I wound your pride and you return the favor. "Was," Damien stressed. "I was their best man. And do stop. I'll not play these sorts of games with a man eight centuries my elder."

"Elder, you say?" Riven's soft chuckle made Damien squirm. It was the sort of thing that should be coming out of the mouth of a spoiled lordling, not the ancient, hardened, monstrous creature Damien knew stood in front of him. "Who would ever believe I'm your elder, priest? I think you misunderstand who, exactly, I am."

Damien slammed his glass down and stood up, towering over the much slighter man. He felt a little satisfaction when Riven winced, looking uncomfortable at the spilled wine. "Then tell me, vulk you, who, exactly, you are! Enough mincing words and dancing around each other. Tell me what is going on so I can help you!" 

Riven glared at him coldly. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Of course." 

Riven looked down, and Damien had to strain to catch his next words. "Even if Gerald Tarrant is truly dead?"

Damien paused, not quite sure what the other man meant by that. He'd seen Tarrant, clear as day, though superimposed like a ghost over Riven's finer, darker features. He'd felt the bond between them. Hells below, he'd even followed it here. Forrest must have seen the confusion in his eyes and misinterpreted it.

"I expected no less," he said, turning away, though not before Damien could catch a glimpse of pure sorrow that marred his normally calm features. "You have no loyalty to me, priest, and no obligation. Perhaps it would be best if we kept it as such. Allow me to escort you out." When he turned back to Damien, his face was schooled again into its beautiful mask.

Damien just stared at the elegant hand offered him. "Hells below, man, what are you talking about? You said you'd tell me what you know, but you haven't said anything. So talk."

Forrest sighed, lowering his hand and dropping wearily into the plush chair behind the desk. "It's a strange story," he warned.

Damien smiled. "I've lived a strange life."

Forrest studied Damien for a moment before nodding, as though he'd found something of which he approved. When he spoke, he sounded more unsure of himself than Damien had ever heard. "I'll not bore you with the details that you already know," he began, "but I will tell you that Gerald Tarrant is, truly and in all sense of the word, dead. After nine hundred years, the great Prophet whose ambition rotted him from the inside sacrificed himself to the fae for the people of Erna. I am the result of that sacrifice, fae-born and yet human, as human as you are and as Tarrant once was. But a human cannot just become, as a fae can, and so the basic…materials, I suppose you could say, that the fae used to form me came from Tarrant. This is his body, reshaped by the power of the fae, my memories are his, reshaped by my own will. As for my will…that I do not understand, because the spark of life that was Gerald Tarrant was taken away, and yet I somehow came to be. But something's wrong. The fae took Tarrant and because of that, and because of your own actions, the fae is separate from us and no longer a threat. But you say yourself the link keeps coming back. Hells below, I even feel it and I was never a part of it. And you saw my face earlier—somehow this body still remembers being Tarrant, even though it shouldn't, by any means. Even though I have his memories, and am partly him, he is dead and his body has been reWorked. Whatever is left of him is trying to Work it back, which leads me to believe there is only one thing that could be happening. The barrier the two of you erected between the fae and humans is faltering. I do not know how such a thing could happen, but it is. I'll be leaving Jaggareth shortly to find clues as to what might be happening. You're welcome to come along or to leave, as you like." 

Damien took a moment to absorb what Forrest had said. Everything made sense in his head, though the circumstances were complicated enough to give even the most wizened mage a headache. Finally, he nodded. "Even if I didn't care about you, or who you were, or who you partly are, or whatever, I'd still have to help you. All this buzzing around in my head would drive me mad, else. So when do we leave?"

Damien could have sworn there was a trace of a true smile on Forrest's lips, though it was faint enough it could have just been the light. "Is the morrow soon enough for you, priest?" Forrest asked, picking up his glass of wine and raising it to Damien. Damien picked up his own wine and, with a little guilt over how much he had spilled, touched his glass to Forrests'. 

"I've no ties here, Mer Forrest," he replied, taking a sip, "and the sooner we leave, the sooner these wandering legs of mine will stop aching."

Riven set his glass down and looked at Damien searchingly. "Tarrant always did wonder how you ever became a priest," he said. "I'm starting to think the same." 

Damien shrugged the reminder of his lost status less painful when not said in spite. "Rules were always more like guidelines for me," Damien answered. "I never was a very good one."

Riven shook his head, eyes dark. "No," he replied. "You were the best."

Second moon had risen and the streetlights had all been lit by the time Damien let himself out of the Hunt Shoppe and started down the street to his inn. The streets were mostly empty, though a few people passed him, mostly late-night revelers who chattered excitedly amongst each other or embraced each other tenderly. Damien thought back to a not-so-distant time when such people would have been easy prey for the man he had just been with; and if not him, for creatures much worse. A thrill of excitement went though him at the prospect of the next day's journey, and he had a sudden sense of loss for the days when the only people brave enough to face the night were the crazy ones like him. Though he'd spoken in jest before, Damien longed to stretch his legs on a road from which he might not return. Longed to fight back to back with an equal, with a companion. He longed for adventure. No, he'd never been a good priest because he had no sense of sacrifice. He'd been the best because he'd never cared if he came back at all. 

And now? For a short while, Damien had cared. He'd cared about someone, and then, he'd cared about himself. Something besides his purpose, besides the church and his vows had held meaning. But that something had been torn away from him; now, he knew what sacrifice truly meant. Whether or not he was still capable of caring, that was something Damien had yet to discover.

TBC...

**AN:**  
Thanks to my two reviewers! I started this story a few years ago, and you both inspired me to continue writing it.   
**Eira:** You could very well be right. I have to admit it's been years since I read the books,and right now my copies are in a far and distant place so I can't check them for accuracy. I hope you continue to enjoy despite my mistakes and your comments are very helpful! I'm very happy you think Damien is IC and I hope I can keep him that way. Thank you!   
**LCM:**Thanks for reviewing! It is appreciated muchly and I hope you continue to enjoy...I'm glad you like the Tarrant/Damien element, though as you can see from this chapter, there's a little twist on it.^_- 


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